Hello up there.

Yes, I see you. Dangling, swaying in front of me like a ripe carrot.  So light and easy that a breeze can push you. So simple that kids grab hold and swing every day, casually mixing a kip into a skinned cat like flipping a coin.

You see me, too. You see me as that one – the one with the chalky hands, who always loses their wrist position when they try to transfer. The one who can pull their damn navel up to the bar…but can't haul their shoulders through.

False grip, hip drive, swing-your-torso-through… sounds as easy as a game of double dutch. I've learned, though, that muscle-ups are not a circus trick. You fooled me, and I practiced…and now, I know, it takes strength and guts and rips and reps.

Strength and guts are MY game. Grip, they tell me, is a choice. I've made mine.  

I'm not going to let go. Don't make it easy for me.

Dear pullup bar,

You, my friend, are in trouble.

You have denied me; you have frustrated me; you have been costly to my sleep and my palms. It seems like forever since I started trying to get one over on you, and I haven't been successful yet.

It may appear that you're winning.

You don't know me that well yet, but we're just going to keep getting a whole lot closer. You're going to meet my grip a dozen – hundred – thousand times, if necessary. I'm going to pull on you until I'm at your level. You will break before I bend. I will not stop. I will not wear down – but you might, and then I'll grip your next of kin with my chalky hands, and pull again. 

Rings: don't think you're safe. You're next.

Attention, plyo box!

Look at you: from up here, you could be a piece of Lego.

You've scared my friends, but not me. They hesitate to jump on you – and I have, too – but no more. 

With one spring, I can bring my full weight down on you. I can stomp you a hundred times in five minutes. Every time I hear that hollow 'thump!' of my heels striking your platform, I laugh.

I used to step on you. That's not enough for me anymore. I escalate not just in jump height, but also in the ferocity which I will rain down on you.

Your biggest threat to me? Scraped shins. Had those when I was three, thanks. Over it. 

See you soon. Let me know how my soles taste. Kisses, me.